


Familiar Spirits

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Monster of the Week, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Sastiel - Freeform, Sastiel Secret Santa 2019, Sastiel Secret Santa Exchange, Season/Series 15, The Beast of Bray Road, Wisconsin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21946750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: Fills in a little gap of time between 15-7 and 15-8. Sam's on the hunt for Eileen, and winds up on a case in the middle of Wisconsin in December. What seems like a straightforward case of werewolves gets out of hand, when the werewolves turn out to be something Sam's never encountered before. It's Castiel to the rescue, but in the middle of the night in a refrigerator of a forest, one wrong move could be the last one they ever make.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 17
Kudos: 45





	Familiar Spirits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avalonsilver](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Avalonsilver).



> Written for Avalonsilver, as a gift for the 2019 Sastiel Secret Santa Exchange.

Sam was finished. Dead. Toast. He crashed through the trees in a pitch black forest with a ripped up shoulder and a monster on his heels that could be a werewolf. If werewolves were mountains with claws that survived half a dozen silver bullets to the face.

What started as a typical (if creepy) case in the middle of Wisconsin made a hard left for ugly, the minute he turned onto Bray Road. One dead quarterback without a heart, two more missing kids from Elkhorn, and an abandoned car on the side of a two-lane country road with folklore piled on it like layers of asphalt. He'd felt eyes on him the whole time, like someone knew exactly what he was doing there. Then, six hours after rolling into town, here he was, praying Mister Big and Nasty's sheer bulk would hang him up in the trees and give Sam a few precious seconds' lead.

His plan worked. This stand of woods was dense and tangled, but Sam stumbled on a deer track and put on an extra burst of speed. He knew the road was somewhere to his left, and if he could just get to his car before the thing behind him broke cover, he had a tiny chance of getting out alive.

The trees gave way three steps before the ground did. Sam shoved his way through a mass of thorny bushes, and stepped out into open air.

Too late, he saw the black ice below, hidden by the ravine's high sides. His left leg twisted beneath him as Sam skidded down the steep bank. Fiery pain shot up his thigh and back as he felt the tendons strain.

The ice rushed up to meet him. More pain, sharp as a shock, shot up his right arm and hip as he smashed into the unforgiving surface.

With the sounds of crackling brush overhead, Sam struggled to stand. The left leg burned as Sam forced himself up, then went out from under him again, sending him crashing back to the bank.

Sam heard the snap in his right arm and couldn't muffle the scream as he landed on it.

With his good arm, he shoved himself flat against the bank, unsheathed his blade and tucked it by his hip. If he was still, if he didn't even breathe, bloodlust might drive the thing behind him across the ravine and into the woods on the other side.

Maybe Mister Big and Nasty would fall and break his arm, too (not likely). Or his neck (sure).

Above him, the woods had gone silent. The kind of cold, crystal silence reserved for winter woods, when even the birds had flown for warmer weather. Sam sipped soft, shallow breaths around the throbbing pain, closed his eyes, and prayed.

He heard the owl-soft whisper of motion as something big passed overhead. He kept his eyes closed. Held his breath. Prayed harder.

There was a scrabble on the opposite bank of the ravine, then the drumming of big paws and nails tatting on the ice.

Sam squeezed his eyes, wishing he could pinch himself out of this nightmare. He took a firmer grip on the hilt of the knife and listened hard for breath beyond his own.

Only one chance to stab the thing. If he couldn't kill it, he could make it remember him at least.

The soft scuff of paws came nearer. The sounds stabbed an icicle of animal fear in Sam's heart, as he realized that was all he could hear. No breath. The thing had just chased him at least a quarter of a mile through dense woods, and it wasn't panting. It wasn't breathing at all.

He cracked one eye and bit down a gasp. The creature crouched on the ice beside him, round ruby eyes glowing. It filled the ravine in front of Sam until the whole sky seemed black and empty. The red eyes hung in the center like twin stars.

Claws brushed Sam's hair, sliding through to touch his cheek. He jumped. So did the creature, and the icy razor tips dug into his skin with a burn like hands under cold water.

Sam's world shrank to the knife in his fist. His body was alive with pain and adrenaline, but Sam kept his gaze on the monster and his mind on the muscles coiled tight in his left arm. Everything else faded away.

Through the earth at his back, Sam felt the tremor of new footsteps.

Mister Big and Nasty's eyes flashed away, then back, his growl booming with menace. He lunged.

Sam met him halfway, only to thrust his blade up through empty air. He heard the sounds of a struggle and saw the pale coat and steel picked out in the starlight. The monster crashed into the wall of the ravine, shoved there by such a force that the land trembled.

"Sam?" Castiel cried.

"Cas? Be careful!" Sam shouted back, wondering if he was already dead. Maybe he'd been dead hours ago, hanging out here with his own heartless corpse.

Mister Big and Nasty lurched up and turned - tried, anyway. Castiel didn't let him get all the way around before he came down on the thing like a jackhammer. The fight was quick and sharp and dirty, ending in Castiel crouched between Sam and the monster, blue energy coursing around him like a propane fire. The light of his grace illuminated the monster, picking out the blunt ursine muzzle and the shaggy fur in electric blue.

Sam couldn't see Castiel's face as he stared the creature down. But he could see the monster's eyes - and the moment when the red light dimmed. The big head turned away, followed by broad shoulders and back as he loped off down the ravine. A few yards away, he clambered up the bank and disappeared.

Castiel turned. "Sam?" he asked again. Lower and gentler. Fingertips touched the scratches on Sam's face.

"I took a header off the edge," Sam said, cheek burning as he laughed through his teeth, "my knee's busted. Can you help me up? We need to move before it comes back and—" he lost the next word in a gasp as Castiel's hand found Sam's right arm.

"He won't come back," Castiel replied, "not for a while, anyway. Your arm is 'busted' too."

"Thought so," Sam said, "what do you mean? That thing's been chasing me for the last ten minutes before you got here. How did you get here? Do you know what it is? It's not a werewolf, is it?"

In his knee and forearm, Sam felt cool grace working under his skin, gently repositioning bone and reconnecting tendons. Numbness and searing pain came and went in ripples like a rollercoaster, until it took careful breathing not to be sick. Healing wasn't usually like this.

"It's not a werewolf," Castiel said, blue-white light flaring and flickering under his palm on Sam's sleeve, "It's a forest god. I've been looking for you, Sam. Why did you leave so suddenly?"

Sam grimaced at another wave of pain rolling through, skittering over his face like an electric current. "Eileen," he panted, "she left without saying anything. I followed her up here. Thought maybe she'd be on this case."

The light of grace intensified, and Sam saw Castiel's brow furrow with strain.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

Castiel gave his head a tight shake, leaning into the work. Sam put a hand on his wrist. "Hey," he said, "stop."

The light died away instantly. Castiel looked up at him, confused. "I'm almost finished, it's just harder now. It takes more energy."

Sam gave his wrist a squeeze, then released. "I'm not dying. It hurts less. If I can walk, mission accomplished, right? Don't kill yourself. We need to get out of here."

Though he could only see Castiel dimly in the dark woods, he could feel the angel's surprised stare.

A few seconds ticked off in silence, before Castiel took his good arm and helped Sam to his feet. The knee held. Hurt, but held.

"It's more accurate to say that was a familiar spirit," Castiel explained, "But he's been on his own in these woods so long, feeding on the energy of the lore, he's mutated."

"Into a god."

"Something like that."

"What kills a familiar spirit?" Sam asked. He started walking again, slowly.

With a sigh, Castiel fell in step beside him. "Burn the forest? I'm sure there's magic, but I don't know it. Familiar spirits don't outlive their people, but Fenrir's not linked to a person - he's linked to the earth. The woods. Maybe the road, since humans keep feeding the legend with their belief."

The penny dropped. Sam scrubbed his eyes with his good hand. "That was the Beast of Bray Road. The actual Beast."

"One of them," Castiel replied, sounding annoyed.

"One?"

"I hate Wisconsin," Castiel said.

* * *

The road didn't reappear as expected. Sam's orienteering must have been thrown off during the chase, or the 'god' that tried to rip his face off was still screwing with them. The snow intensified, cutting their visibility down to a few feet. Sam wasn't doing so hot either, as stumbling through tangled woods and uneven ground unraveled Castiel's imperfect healing.

Sam weighed his options, grateful at least for the stark silence of the night. He couldn't send Castiel to look for the car on his own - he didn't trust these woods to let him find his way back. Sam could start a fire, but without cover, they'd be sitting ducks for the monster. He even thought about calling the police chief back in Elkhorn, but he could be a popsicle before a search party got anywhere near him.

Imagine dying here of exposure, abandoned by God and the Grand Plan, after all the deaths they'd evaded through the years. He supposed it would be funny in a way, if it wasn't his own fingers and toes going numb.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Castiel said.

"It's okay," Sam replied, "You didn't get us lost. I did."

"No. I think he's manipulating the woods. It was fighting me - it didn't want me to find you."

"How  _ did _ you find me?" Sam wondered.

"I heard you, Sam. I always hear you." Castiel's voice was fond. His fingers squeezed Sam's shoulder.

Around them, the forest seemed suddenly brighter. Sam could see the snow falling softly as the world took on a warm, pink glow.

It wasn't dawn. It couldn't be.

If this was what hypothermia looked like, Sam wasn't giving in without a fight. He found an ounce of strength and charged forward, forcing Castiel to keep up.

The woods shifted before them, shimmering, and something stepped out of the air, and into the rosy light.

A massive horse. No, a crow. No, something that was neither, with what seemed like more than the typical number of legs.

It moved towards them, massive and black, with great wings and a crown of feathers for a mane.

It opened red, round eyes.

Sam tensed, going for his knife more as a comfort than an honest belief he could do something about the behemoth standing in front of them. He stepped in front of Castiel. "Cas, is that what I think it is?"

"It is," Castiel confirmed.

Sam swallowed. "Another one. Great."

"His name is Sleipner."

"Of course it is."

"Little half god," Sleipner addressed Sam in a deep, gentle voice, "this isn't your forest."

Half god? Sam was anything but. This giant spider-horse deity thing must have things a little mixed up. Maybe Sleipner was looking at Castiel.

Castiel spoke before Sam could get a word out. "We know. Let us out."

Sleipner took a step closer, reaching out to Sam with his long, wedge head, until the broad velvet nose brushed Sam's hair. Abruptly, Sleipner backed away. "I can't," he said, shaking his head until the feathers flew in all directions, "my brother marks you as trespassers."

"We're not here by choice," Castiel replied, angel blade slipping into his hand as he stepped around Sam, "we only want to leave."

Curling his head back over one shoulder, Sleipner preened one of his great black wings.

Sam never knew a horse could  _ shrug _ . Metaphorical or otherwise.

"Nevertheless," he replied, "if you're to be free of Bray Road, you must do it on the merits of your own cleverness."

Something in the dismissive tone sparked steel against Sam's flinty anger, and he found his voice. "Is your brother stealing human kids and eating their hearts? Because that's why I'm in these woods - something's killing people out here."

The big head arced back to him. Sleipner's red eyes narrowed. "Wolf-men loiter in our territory. We cannot drive them out because they are wolves. We cannot kill them because they are men." His gaze flicked to Castiel. "Are you not bound by the same law, brother? I sense an ancient wood through you."

Sam blinked at Castiel; watched his shoulders and jaw tighten. "No," Castiel said, "I'm not."

Putting a mollifying hand on Castiel's shoulder, Sam looked up at the familiar spirit in front of them, who - in the simplest of terms - had a pest problem, and none of the opposable thumbs necessary to handle it.

"Show us the way back to my car, and we'll get them out of your woods," Sam said.

Sleipner twitched and resettled his wings, looking uncomfortable for a massive forest deity, "My brother has marked you," he said warily, "you must find your own way out."

"Then give us shelter," Sam persisted, "I'm going to freeze out here."

The big head tipped inquisitively. "Like humans?" Sleipner asked.

"Like humans," Sam confirmed.

"You're a strange little half-god," Sleipner said, "and not at all like what I remember, but very well. Although if you don't like the cold, what the hell are you doing here? There are much warmer forests in the wintertime. Even the geese know that. And they're  _ geese _ ."

"It's a long story," Sam said.

Before he could say more, he found himself on the porch of a tiny cabin. Warm light shone through the windows, promising heat and welcome.

"Luckily for you," Sleipner said, "I love a long story. Rest. Care for your—" the red eyes searched him, flicking between Sam and Castiel, "—companion. You have my hospitality. I'll come for your story when you are no longer dying."

"That might take a while," Castiel offered dryly.

Angel and deity stared at one another. Then with a toss of his head, Sleipner let out a sound like the chuckle of a contented duck.

He rearranged his wings one more time and walked away, gliding soundlessly over the snow on his eight legs. The shimmering curtains of reality parted for him again, and the brutal black Wisconsin night resumed.

The cabin remained.

"If we're dead, this must be  _ your _ Heaven," Sam said, reaching for the doorknob.

Castiel huffed. "We are not dead. And I  _ hate _ Wisconsin."

* * *

Sam awoke, warm and comfortable, to the scent of coffee and the crackle of a fire. For a few minutes he lingered, sure this was a dream and determined to wring every ounce of enjoyment.

Reality slammed back to center stage, knocking him out of his contentment as he processed the alien sounds, smells and physical sensations around him. He was  _ warm _ . He was  _ comfortable _ . The old abandoned building smell in the Bunker was gone, replaced by the resiny scent of fir trees and woodsmoke. Right now, nothing hurt. He didn't know where was, but he felt safe.

Safe? Safe was always a trick. He was in danger.

Sam jerked to consciousness. He opened his eyes at the soft dry scuff of turning pages. Castiel occupied the bentwood rocking chair before the fireplace, reading an arm's length away. His concentration on the book in his hands was total; head bowed over the pages as in prayer.

Letting Castiel's presence orient him, Sam took a few deep breaths. Yesterday's memories settled as the burst of adrenaline faded. He stole a few more moments of selfish indulgence, watching Castiel while he caught his breath.

Castiel must have sensed him. Blue eyes lifted from the words on the page, finding Sam's like a beacon.

So much had changed since they'd been alone like this. Sam's stomach flipped.

"Good morning," Castiel said, closing the book. In doing so, he gave Sam a glimpse of the cover - and the series of runes embossed in the tawny leather, "there's plenty to eat, if you're hungry. I made coffee; I hope it's done properly."

Sam glanced towards the kitchenette, and the silver percolator chuffing out steam on the counter. "You know how to use one of those?"

The question tugged a smile out of Castiel. "There's one in the Bunker. I've watched Dean use it." Just as quickly as it blossomed, the smile wilted. Castiel hid it away as if it never happened. He rose, leaving the book on the chair. "How are you feeling?"

Sam extricated himself from the layers of blankets - and maybe the first good night's sleep under something other than a chintzy motel duvet in weeks. He reached for his shirt and tugged it over his head. The collar was stiff with blood from his cheek, and the scent of last night's sweat hit his nose. Ugh. A shower was probably too much to hope for.

He put both feet on the floor and stood up. His knee worked without protest, carrying him all the way to the front door without a pop or a click, like he was twenty and not mostly made of scar tissue and grief. "Good. Great, actually. Your handiwork?" He gestured at himself, and rubbed the once-broken forearm.

Castiel's smile peeked out again, faint. "Yes. I took the opportunity to heal you slowly."

"While I was asleep?"

"I thought you might appreciate the efficiency and sleep better," Castiel replied, then faltered. "I—should I not have?"

"No," Sam said quickly, bending to pick up his boots from beside the door, "I appreciate it, really, I do. But I told you I didn't need it, and you're struggling enough."

That had been the wrong thing to say. Sam looked up from lacing his boots to find Castiel watching him like he'd just murdered a puppy.

"Cas, it's fine," Sam tried to reassure him, "you didn't do anything wrong."

Another little pause, and Castiel spread his hands, voice stretched and tired as an old shirt, "Healing is the only thing that I can still  _ do _ for you, Sam. Yes it's hard, but let me do it."

Let Castiel hurt himself? Kill himself for Sam's pain? Even if Sam wanted to give him permission, he wouldn't - couldn't - take that burden. Finding nothing civil to reply, Sam raised his palms in surrender and reached for his coat.

"Where are you going?" Castiel demanded.

"Out," Sam snapped, "to pee. After that, we need to get going."

"I'll go with you."

"No. Nothing killed me in three weeks without you, nothing's going to grab me in five minutes."

Shocked silence dropped between them with a nearly audible thud. Sam felt relief and hated himself for it. He watched Castiel slowly back up a step, turn around, and lower himself into the rocking chair again.

"All right, Sam," Castiel said, and put his head in his hands.

Sam picked up his phone and his coat and went outside.

Snow greeted him, coming down in a thick curtain, blurring the trees around them past a few feet.

He went as far as he dared to do his business, steadying himself with the physicality of walking and deep inhales of the sharp, pine-scented air. Afterward, hands still stinging from a scrubbing with fresh snow, Sam checked his messages.

Nothing from Eileen. Nothing from Dean, either. The signal was weak - just a little x over the spot where his reception status should be. Even if they had called, the messages might not be getting through. Sam sighed and powered down the phone to save the sliver of battery life left. He didn't suppose the cabin came with spare smartphone chargers.

When he came back, the cabin smelled like warm bread, a mug of coffee and a plate of toast waited on the counter, and Castiel had gone back to his book. He didn't look up when Sam closed the door.

"Let me know when you're ready to leave," Castiel said, in a tone that wasn't exactly 'fuck you,' but rhymed with it.

Letting the statement fall where it may, Sam picked up his breakfast and went back to the bed to eat it. He didn't want it, but with at least six inches of snow since last night and more coming, the walk back to the car would be a slog. Sam needed all the help he could get.

Castiel had spread a layer of dark red, sticky jam on the toast. It tasted like blueberries but strange, wild, and almost sickly-sweet. "I think someone put a whole bag of sugar in this stuff," Sam said.

With a nod, Castiel lowered his book. "I noticed. It's bilberry - or what's left of it after someone with a sweet tooth ruined the recipe." After a pause, he added, "When I tasted it, I wondered if he'd like it."

The bottom dropped out of Sam's stomach. Upcoming hike or not, he put the plate down. "Yeah," he said softly, breathing out a laugh as his heart cinched up, "I know what you mean."

"Sam, I didn't know what to do. I still don't."

Sam took a few slow breaths, feeling the tension slide out of his shoulders, only to reappear as soon as he let his focus slip. He studied the wet red smear of jam on the half eaten toast in front of him, then blocked it out with the earthenware coffee mug in his hands. "Me too. For what it's worth, I don't blame you. I couldn't look at him either. I kept thinking, if we kept—if we kept Belphegor close, we could find Jack and put him back."

At the sound of the name, Castiel's shoulders slumped. He dropped his head. "I'm so sorry, Sam."

Sam gave his head a quick, sharp shake. "Don't be. If that demon finished what he was doing, he'd have been—I don't think I could take that. You did what you had to."

The quiet that followed stretched, until Sam could hear the wind pushing against the cabin, and the rustle of the trees as the force of it rocked them. He looked up then, worried he'd shut Castiel down.

Instead, he found Castiel watching him. As their eyes met, Castiel's veered away. Down. His hand smoothed the book he held. "I only seem to hurt you, even when I try to help," Castiel said, "I stopped Belphegor, and I destroyed what was left of our son. I tried to leave and hurt you more. I came back and nearly killed you. The only thing I'm sure I can do at this point is heal."

"You found me last night," Sam pointed out, "and you kicked a forest god's ass to save me. That's not nothing."

"Fenrir," Castiel reminded, quiet as if it was more to himself than Sam.

"Is he—you know.  _ The _ Fenrir?"

"Yes."

Sam let this sink in.

"An aspect of him, anyway," Castiel clarified, "brought here with Norwegian immigrants and left in the woods for a few hundred years with his half brother Sleipnir. Why, I can't say."

Sam sat up a little straighter as Castiel's words highlighted a moment from the night before. "That reminds me. Sleipnir called  _ you _ 'brother,'" Sam said, "What did he mean?"

Castiel rolled his shoulders and set his book aside. "Not in the sense that you probably mean it, and he wouldn't thank you for the suggestion - but we share commonalities. Sleipner is sworn to guide and protect humanity. We get our power in similar ways, as well."

"From a forest?" Sam remembered with a puzzled smile.

"Heaven is a forest," Castiel said with a sigh, "Sleipnir sensed Heaven, I think. I'm not certain. By his definition, I'm a familiar spirit with a forest of my own. He saw you, however, as divine. They both did."

Sam had been thinking this over since the moment it was uttered. "It's the Equalizer," he said.

Castiel nodded. "I think so, Sam. Sergei described it as a link between your soul and God. I think these spirits can sense Him through you."

"Don't remind me," Sam said with a grimace. He reached for his coffee again, took another sip, and blinked as the taste reached him through layers of worry. "Cas, this is pretty good."

Castiel's expression softened, the tension around his eyes and jaw easing. He looked up at Sam with such unexpected gratitude and pleasure, Sam wished he could do it again. "I'm glad."

The air charged as silence fell between them again.

A heavy thump on the porch rattled the building. Sam's head jerked up. Unsheathing his knife, he slipped to the wall by the front door and peeked around the edge of the window.

Sleipnir stood at the bottom of the steps, one huge foot planted on the porch. He ducked his head under the porch roof, red eyes flashing back and forth. From the shins down, Sam noticed, all eight of his hooves were masked with a fall of sleek black iridescent feathers. His back and folded wings were white with snow, the flakes unmelting on his fuzzy coat.

Tucking the knife in his belt, Sam opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

"Hello, little half-god," Sleipner rumbled, "are you no longer dying?"

"No more than usual," Sam replied, unable to muffle his fascinated smile because he was, after all, talking to  _ Sleipnir _ . A forest god. Who, miraculously, didn't seem interested in killing and eating him.

Sleipnir tossed his mane of feathers and blew a gust of hot, grass-scented breath at Sam. "I am glad to hear it. Are you planning to return to your conveyance now?"

"Yes," Sam said, and felt the porch vibrate as Castiel joined him outside, "we have weapons there to deal with werewolves. Without help, we'll need those."

Sleipnir's ears rounded towards them. He turned his head, watching them carefully with one eye. "I will attend you."

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "I thought you couldn't lead us out of the forest," he said, "per the law."

"That is still the law," Sleipnir answered "but I am here for my promised story, and the daylight is short in wintertime. I believe it would be most efficient if I accompany you, and hear your tale as you walk."

Sleipnir breathed another sweet spring breath over Sam and stepped away, chuckling to himself.

A few minutes later, when Sam and Castiel walked alongside him through the trees, Sam tried to offer gratitude. Sleipnir wouldn't have it. "I am here for my story," he insisted, waiting for them to catch up to him, "nothing more, little half-god." And when Sam came close to him, his velvet nose nudged gently at the cheek where Fenrir's claws had raked him.

"I don't know where to start," Sam said.

"Start at the beginning," Sleipnir said.

"Which one? How I got out here, or how I ended up like this, or what?"

"Whichever beginning seems best, so long as the story is good."

It wasn't a story he liked to tell, in the rare instance that Sam wanted to talk about himself. But the story needed to carry them to the car, which could be a long walk. And Sam might not like his choices, but he and Dean's story was definitely of value to someone. They had a paperback book series, a high school musical and a fandom to prove it.

So he told it.

The whole story.

Castiel annotated from time to time, while Sleipnir drifted around them as they marched through the snow. By some miracle, his abundance of legs didn't seem to cause him any issues, and his eight-beat walking rhythm became the heartbeat of the trek.

Sam's steps weren't quite so easy. Snow caked on his boots and jeans up to the knee, melting slowly through the denim and his thermal underwear until his legs felt like concrete. He kept going, annoyed at his own frailty as both Castiel and Sleipnir moved through the snow like they didn't even notice it. When he couldn't find the breath to move and talk at the same time, he called a halt.

"Sam, let me help," Castiel said, reaching out towards Sam's wet and snow-caked clothes. His eyes glowed ice blue, and Sam's jeans were suddenly dry.

Mostly, anyway. Before he could finish, Castiel swooned into Sam's shoulder. Sam caught him. The cool of Castiel's body was stark against Sam's warm one. Before he could pull away, Sam curled his hand around the back of Castiel's neck and wrapped his other arm about the angel's waist, pulling him close.

"Thanks," Sam whispered.

Castiel returned the gesture, and they stood quietly, breathing together, while Sam's frustration poured itself out.

Sleipnir came back to stand before them.

"I just need a break," Sam explained, "then I can keep going."

"You're very strange for a god, little one," Sleipnir said, breathing into Sam's hair, "what is your name?"

"Sam," he answered.

"A strange little half-god, with a strange name. But it is enough." Sleipnir knelt before him, all eight legs folding up like he was more accordion than horse. His wings lifted from his flanks, making a great black canopy between Sam and the snow.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked.

"I refuse to bear a god I do not know," Sleipnir replied. "But I see you are also a man, and thus under my ward. If you don't have breath, you cannot speak. And if you cannot speak, you cannot finish your story. So, now I know you, Sam. I shall bear you to the end of your tale."

"And you, brother," Sleipnir said, gaze shifting to Castiel, "I see there is great struggle."

Castiel looked away.

"I also see great loss," Sleipnir continued, "an ancient wood, but sparse."

"My people are dying," Castiel replied, still looking away, "the woods are failing."

Sleipnir made a contemplative noise. "I am sorry for that. I cannot remake a forest that has been cut down."

Sam felt Castiel's fists tighten against his back. "Thank you, but—" Castiel began, and then arched in Sam's arms. His eyes flashed blue, then green, mouth opening to spill a fierce green light.

Panic grasped Sam's heart in cold claws. "Cas?" He asked, begged, taking a harder hold on the angel as his body went limp. Sam staggered under the weight.

"What did you do to him?" Sam demanded.

Sleipnir cocked his head. "I shared the woods with him," he replied, confused, "his forest is dying. He needs another."

"What?"

Castiel opened his eyes, still glowing green. He found his feet and pushed away from Sam. "I'm all right. I feel better. I—" he looked down at his own palms, now suffused with a green glow of their own, and rounded on Sleipnir. "What did you do?"

Sleipnir let out a caw of frustration. He got to his feet, twitching off the accumulated snow, and snapped his wings before resettling them against his flanks. "You are very rude," he said.

"I can't feel Heaven," Castiel's voice was hollow with disbelief, "All I feel is… trees. Roots and earth." His eyes darted back and forth, as if he were watching a train pass, or reading a book at double speed, "Snow. Moving water—rocks and ice. Deer. Squirrels. Foxes. —Werewolves. Sam!"

In one fluid motion, Castiel shoved himself around Sam to face the forest. His blade was in his hand, but strange now, longer, dark and gnarled at the hilt.

His wings snapped open.

Crow's wings.

Through the dark feathers, Sam saw a huge dark shape streak out of the woods. It blew past them, a mix of man and bear and wolf, covered in shining black hair.

The thing that tried to rip his face off, Sam remembered. The other familiar spirit. Fenrir.

A pair of silvery dark shapes pursued Fenrir. They came up short at the sight of Castiel and his companions. Werewolves. Purebloods, Sam thought, to be in this form in broad daylight. Turned werewolves didn't have that kind of control.

Sleipnir reared, striking the earth with his hooves until the forest shook.

At this, the werewolves growled. They feinted at Sleipnir, utterly fearless of him.

"Sam, they know," Castiel said over his shoulder, "he can't hurt them. I don't know if  _ I _ can hurt them like this."

Sam went for his knife, then shook his head. These were  _ actual _ werewolves. As in  _ not _ forest gods chasing him through the woods for trespassing. He dug his revolver out of his shoulder holster. Empty, he remembered with a curse. He'd put every bullet into Fenrir, and didn't take the time to reload when the bullets seemed useless.

He dug in the chest pocket of his coat. Three silver bullets remained.

Yahtzee.

"That's all right," Sam said, "just keep them off me long enough to reload."

At their voices, the werewolves turned. He made eye contact with them over Castiel's shoulder and could almost hear them think: free lunch.

Castiel's voice was low and cold. "I can do that," he said.

* * *

John Winchester drilled his sons in everything a soldier needed to know. Sam could clean a gun by the time he was five. At eight, he could make his own powder bullets; by ten he could handle the crucible and pour bullets made of lead and silver and gold. At twelve, he could break down any firearm in John's trunk, and reassemble it in minutes.

He fucking knew how to load this revolver.

He could do it in seconds.

He could do it in the dark; half asleep; half conscious from blood loss; flooded with adrenaline and fear in the middle of a firefight.

Numb with cold, Sam felt like his hands were working at half speed. He went as fast as he could, but he could hear it as the werewolves got hold of Castiel and dragged him down.

Sam backed up, giving himself some distance from Castiel as he slapped the revolver closed. Three. That had to be enough.

His motion drew the werewolves' focus and they came for him. Sam aimed for the eyes and fired, fired, fired—

He went down under the weight of the first one to reach him. It died on top of him, life shuddering out of its jaws an inch from his throat.

Sam heard the other one growling, coming closer, felt its weight and its claws at it stepped on his shoulder and pinned him in the snow.

Then it shrieked, jerked away on the end of Castiel's blade.

The woods shrouded them in snow and silence one more. Sam could hear his own hard breath and Castiel's, and that was all.

Castiel dug Sam out from underneath the first werewolf. "Are you all right?" He asked, bloodied and panting, "did it bite you?" The dark wings mantled over Sam; enfolded him with Castiel in their shadows.

"It didn't have a chance," Sam said, pushing himself up as the werewolf's dead weight was removed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not sure," Castiel replied, "I can feel Heaven now. It's faint. I think this place is just… louder."

Relief suffused Sam like sunshine. "The wings look good," he said. Castiel looked up, as if seeing his own wings for the first time. He flexed them, then turned back to Sam with an expression he'd never seen there before.

Joy.

"Thanks for the save," Sam said, "I thought there were rules."

"There are," Castiel replied.

"So you broke them?"

Very, very gently, Castiel rested his hand on Sam's chest. "Love knows no boundaries," he replied, "and all that."

Pushing his weight onto one hand, Sam reached for Castiel's cheek and ushered him down into a kiss. Soft at first, building slowly with passion as the barriers between them broke one at a time. Grief and doubt, loss and pain slipped into the background as something new filled the places they'd occupied. Not gone, never gone, but no longer isolated. No more swimming those dark waters alone.

Castiel clutched Sam's face in his palms and kissed him hard, trying and failing to gasp words in between. Sam curled his arms under Castiel's and pulled him down against his chest, falling back into the snow. He might be cold and wet, but those problems would sort themselves out eventually. They didn't matter. Sam took the moment for himself and hung onto it, tightly as he held Castiel to his heart.

He didn't look up until he heard - and felt - the soft, warm gust of Sleipnir's exhale on his face.

Two pairs of red eyes hung over them in two dark faces - one round, one long and thin.

"Are you hale?" Sleipnir asked.

"Yes," Castiel snapped, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

"We're a little banged up, but we'll be all right," Sam added quickly, before Fenrir could change his mind about removing Sam's face.

"We cannot thank you for what you've done," Sleipnir said, "but for saving our lives, we are in your debt."

Sam scrambled to his feet. He touched Castiel's shoulder. "We just want to go home," he said, "if you can get us back to my car, we'll call it even."

Fenrir shook himself all over. He glanced at Sleipner, who translated. "He can't. He must attend the dead. However," as Sleipner trailed off, Fenrir extended one clawed hand to Sam's face, grazing the spot where he'd sliced the skin, "he rescinds your mark as trespasser. You are welcome in these woods - provided you do not kill inside their boundaries, ever again."

Sam nodded. "Done."

It was Sleipnir's turn to shake himself. He heaved a great sigh, squared himself to Sam, and went down on one knee. Or… well… several knees. The front knees. Whatever, Sam lost count. "Good," he said, "aboard, little half-god Sam. I'll have the rest of that story from you now."

"What about Cas?" Sam asked.

"What  _ about _ Cas?" Sleipnir echoed, turning his gaze to Castiel.

Castiel stepped forward, wings folded at his back. "I think I understand what you did, and I'm grateful, but this isn't my home. Will this—" he hesitated, swallowing, and Sam tensed in sympathy, "—will this stop me from going back to my forest?"

Sleipnir cawed. "Don't be stupid," he said, not unkindly, "May birds leave their woods? May foxes? Forests have no walls. That's why they're  _ forests _ ."

At Castiel's dubious expression, Sleipnir sighed. "I see that you'll need to see for yourself. Very well. If you find it's not to your liking, come back to see me."

Sam exchanged glances with Castiel, who shrugged, then offered Sam a hand onto Sleipnir's broad back, in the space between his neck and the first joints of his wings.

"Since he's your brother," Sam said, "Castiel can ride too, right?"

Sleipnir gave Castiel a considering look. "Why would you want to ride, when you can fly?" he asked.

Castiel's eyes flicked from Sleipnir's to Sam's, wide and wary. He put his hand on Sam's thigh after Sleipnir stood once more.

"Will you be all right, Sam?" Castiel asked.

Sam grinned. He leaned over, scuffed his palm against Castiel's cheek, and took a handful of Sleipnir's feathery mane.

"Race you to the road," he said.

**Author's Note:**

> [The Beast of Bray Road](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beast_of_Bray_Road) is a unique part of Wisconsin folklore. I first learned about it from one of my dearest and oldest friends. I needed a setting, and a cryptid that might get Sam stuck in a frozen wood, and The Beast not only fit the bill but allowed me to give Wisconsin's gorgeous scenery a shoutout. Castiel may not exactly love Wisconsin, but I certainly do!
> 
> Sleipnir and Fenrir in this story are very, _very_ loose adaptations of their original counterparts and not culturally accurate representations. To learn more about them, here's a couple of videos from Dr. Jackson Crawford, an American scholar and poet specializing in Old Norse, who teaches Nordic Studies at the University of Colorado and recently consulted on subjects of Norse Myth & Language on _American Gods_ and _Frozen_. [Sleipnir](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emucqvmzhXE) | [Fenrir](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oAGmjoZDckM).


End file.
